Heartbreaker
by psshhhhh
Summary: Fenris was a heart ripper, he'd reach on in and pluck them out, casual as talking a walk in the sunshine. He stole Hawke's heart and tore Anders', all in one fell swoop, because he was a heart breaker, because it was what he did. Unrequited Anders/mHawke


Fenris was a heart ripper, he'd reach on in and pluck them out, casual as talking a walk in the sunshine. He stole Hawke's heart and tore Anders's, all in one fell swoop, because he was a heart breaker, because it was what he did.

* * *

Fenris stole hearts. He reached on in and plucked them out, bloody and still beating a rag tag beat. He'd seen the elf do it on at least three occasions, without any hesitation, just a glow of lyrium and a punch through the chest. He was a heart ripper, Anders just wanted to know when, exactly, he'd torn Hawke's heart, and how he hadn't noticed it happen.

It was slow at first, Anders can only look back now and see where it started, because at first it was all run of the mill. Hired for business half-blind and fumbling in the Alienage in the dark, suddenly facing off against far too many slavers with far too little time. But Anders had been there, to wipe the blood off of Hawke's brow and to heal every single stab wound in sight. Then there was the elf, strange only for his garb and, yeah, _ripping out a man's heart_, which he did as casually as one might pluck an apple from a food stall.

Hawke talked to the elf while Anders lingered back, letting his magic seep out through his skin and heal Isabella and Varric, both a little put out about being blindsided. 'A little' being the biggest understatement of the year minus the Deep Roads being _maybe probably_ dangerous.

Hawke had agreed to continue to help the elf after hearing his background; he was fond of taking on charity cases, which may be how Anders came to being the resident expert on closing up gaping stomach wounds and wishing away STD's. So they trotted along to Hightown and trotted on through Danarius's mansion, only facing a meek infestation of hundreds of shades and Abominations and demons. Whenever Anders felt ready to complain about all they were doing for a stranger, a dangerous, heart ripping stranger at that, he remembered how Hawke readily agreed to free a mage for him, and comforted him kindly afterward that diabolical.

In the end it was fruitless. _Or was it_? Hawke asked impishly only seconds after the words left Anders's mouth. The elf waited outside, ready to pounce with accusations of the evils of magic, the weakness of mages, the lure of demons. Hawke managed to defend Anders and flirt with Fenris, all in one breath. This was not abnormal; Hawke had flirted with everyone, with the exception of Varric, on numerous occasions. Or maybe Fenris had it right when he said Hawke spoke his mind. No thought was too treacherous to share. He was ready and willing to be an open book, so long as someone was willing to peek under the cover.

Which Anders was. Which Anders had.

But things only got worse during the three years of wishy washy peace after the expedition. With Hawke's new found wealth came a new found neighbor – and drinking partner. When he wasn't forcing Fenris out of his rotted mansion to join the others at the Hanged Man, he was cooped up in there himself, reveling in the bitter taste of Aggregrio wine. Hawke continued to flirt, dropping compliments like house flies every which way, but he showed a strange softness for Fenris, even as he snapped at Hawke for his latest decision to spare an apostate. Decisions Anders readily supported.

With every moment Hawke actually listened to Fenris argue the evils of magic, with every evening spent drinking privately with the elf, with every blatantly obvious flirtation, Anders feared he was losing him.

Then, abruptly, everything swung around opposite. And for maybe a day, Anders felt it was all well and good again.

But it wasn't, as apparent from Isabella's sly comments and the whispers traded behind Hawke's back. Fenris had gone to him, had not been turned away, had slipped on into his bed. Anders felt sick just thinking of it, the man he felt utmost respect for, the one man who Anders had told he was an abomination and still felt free to flirt shamelessly, and the cold, cruel, heart stopper had wormed his little blue fingers into his chest.

Anders could tell himself he wasn't jealous all he liked, but he liked Hawke, liked the kind quirk to his blue eyes, the softness of his hand on Anders back when he tumbled to the ground in battle, the sympathy he had for mages, though he was not one. He liked everything about Hawke – except that Hawke liked Fenris.

It _would_ turn out that Hawke's one character flaw would be his tendency to go for charity cases. And what could be more charitable than showing love to someone to whom the concept was alien?

What hurt the most was that Hawke never gave up. Crates of Tevinter wine appeared at Fenris's doorstep, the occasional book on his table where before there had been none, after about a year there was a sudden and sharp decline in the Seneschal's interest in the empty mansion Fenris was squatting in. And Hawke continued to drag Fenris out to the Hanged Man, though he never again did show up on the odd evening, a bottle of wine under one arm, to share stories and drink wine he had no taste for. Their time alone was over.

Then there was that damned red scarf around Fenris's wrist and the Amell crest he wore. What right did he have? Anders wondered angrily, to flaunt Hawke's affections after he had snubbed them?

Things only went from bad to worse. Fenris made puppy eyes, Varric talked sweeping and all of a sudden they were together again, this time solidly. Consistently Hawke would show up at Fenris's door in the evening, only to depart in the late morning. Anders could have sworn he saw the elf smile once or twice. It was ridiculous that Anders still cared and worried about their relationship even as he plotted the death of the Grand Cleric.

He knew that in doing this, he would lose Hawke forever, not to some anti-mage elf, but at his own hands.

Anders was almost disappointed when Hawke didn't kill him.

"Living with this will be punishment enough," Hawke told the mage, who sat defeated in the dirt, "If you care so much for this cause then fight for it. Fight with us."

Anders was weak, he knew this, it was why he succumbed to Vengeance, it was why he had fled first the Circle, then the Wardens. It was why tears pooled in his eyes when his love granted him mercy, though there was no call for it. A hand was offered to help him to his feet, but it was not Hawke's, he had already stepped away to speak to the rest of the party. No it was the thorny, lyrium burnt hand of the heart ripper himself. Fenris glared down at Anders, fury burning in his eyes as he struggled for a blank face. Anders just looked at him, struck dumb.

"If Hawke believes you to be worth saving, then you are worth saving." Fenris said shortly. For a painfully brief moment Anders could see everything Hawke saw in him as he grabbed that cold hand and let himself be pulled to his feet. There was nothing he could say, even when Hawke returned and, as casually as Anders had done so many times to him, wiped Anders's face clean and he realized that it didn't take lyrium brandings to steal a man's heart.

Dying a martyr could wait another day.


End file.
